The good creature felt himself really elevated by all the troubles and adversities he had experienced. He could now rightly estimate his own happiness, and the larger swans swam round him, and stroked him with their beaks. Some little children were running about in the garden; [Illustration: AND EVERY ONE SAID, ‘THE NEW ONE IS THE BEST’] they threw grain and bread into the water, and the youngest exclaimed, ‘There is a new one!’--the others also cried out, ‘Yes, there is a new swan come!’ and they clapped their hands, and danced around. They ran to their father and mother, bread and cake were thrown into the water, and every one said, ‘The new one is the best, so young, and so beautiful!’ and the old swans bowed before him. The young swan felt quite ashamed, and hid his head under his wings; he scarcely knew what to do, he was all too happy, but still not proud, for a good heart is never proud. He remembered how he had been persecuted and derided, and he now heard every one say he was the most beautiful of all beautiful birds. The syringas bent down their branches towards him low into the water, and the sun shone so warmly and brightly--he shook his feathers, stretched his slender neck, and in the joy of his heart said, ‘How little did I dream of so much happiness when I was the ugly, despised duckling!’ [Illustration] THE NAUGHTY BOY There was once an old poet, such a good, honest old poet! He was sitting alone in his own little room on a very stormy evening; the wind was roaring without, and the rain poured down in torrents. But the old man sat cosily by his warm stove, the fire was blazing brightly, and some apples were roasting in front of it. ‘Those poor people who have no roof to shelter them to-night will, most assuredly, not have a dry thread left on their skin,’ said the kind-hearted old man. ‘Oh, open the door! open the door! I am so cold, and quite wet through besides--open the door!’ cried a voice from without. The voice was like a child’s, and seemed half-choked with sobs. ‘Rap, rap, rap!’ it went on knocking at the door, whilst the rain still kept streaming down from the clouds, and the wind rattled among the window-panes. ‘Poor thing!’ said the old poet; and he arose and opened the door. There stood a little boy, almost naked; the water trickled down from his long flaxen hair; he was shivering with cold, and had he been left much longer out in the street, he must certainly have perished in the storm. ‘Poor boy!’ said the old poet again, taking him by the hand, and leading him into his room. ‘Come to me, and we’ll soon make thee warm again, and I will give thee some wine, and some roasted apples for thy supper, my pretty child!’ And, of a truth, the boy was exceedingly pretty. His eyes [Illustration]